


Snapshot

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Episode Ardyn Spoilers, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Game Events mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 20:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19952167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: A simple moment between Regis and Clarus discussing young Noctis' Training.





	Snapshot

“Your son,” Clarus stated one day, as he stepped into the royal study; “has decided on the sword.”

“The sword?” The study was a mess— Regis’ youthful habits hard to break with time, as he scattered information and sources drudged up from the depths of the Citadel archives and the royal libraries until it was immediately relevant to his work. He sat in the centre of the familiar chaos with a stack of reports, the greying in his beard and at his temples becoming more pronounced in the bright afternoon light of the opened windows. “I suppose he wants to be like me.”

“I suppose he wants to train with you,” Clarus offered as he stepped over a stack of books about the rise of the Niflheim Empire. “You should see him, your majesty. He can barely lift the thing and he’s still so determined.”

“Don’t say it.”

“Just like you.”

Regis set his report down with a smile— another addition to the stack presented just that morning. In the summer light, the shadow of an old threat still loomed over the Citadel. Outside, there were preparations being made despite the spectre of the past. Streamers were being set high across the main thoroughfares, now closed to all traffic but pedestrian; the speakers were being mounted in strategic places across the Citadel’s district, where the bulk of the celebrations were promised to be. And the Crownsguard were on high alert, while the newly minted Kingsglaive— now tapping into more and more power by the King’s graces— ran through patrols and exercises to guard the heart of the city in greater force. To guard the Crystal and the King. 

And the young prince struggling to lift a training sword somewhere in the depths of the Citadel itself. 

Founder’s Day approached, and Regis had learnt to hate the holiday. 

“When is his training starting?”

“By your leave, majesty,” Clarus moved a set of books— the histories of failed treaties— from the chair opposite his friend and offered a smile. “You really should be there.”

“I trust you to teach him.”

“Majesty—”

“What can I possibly teach him that you can’t?”

“Warping? Magic?” Clarus offered a wry look in response to Regis’ own; “Sheer arrogance? You tend to have that in spades.”

“Cor can help with that part.”

“Cor is going to get himself killed socializing with hunters in Duscae. Your son wants you.”

“I need to work.”

“You need to be a father.”

There was something cold buried in the pit of Regis’ stomach at the thought of it. At the thought of the responsibility, the duty, the expectation and adoration in those bright eyes that reminded him so much of Aulea. There was a fear, spurred on by the approaching festivities and memories of the same events years ago interrupted. It coiled in his gut and made him blanch at the prospect of seeing his son caught in the ruin that his own youthful arrogance had wrought, of being left defenceless should the Imperial agent who had attacked his city returned. 

It was easier to ignore it and dig at old wounds instead; “Didn’t you just send your own son to a military academy?”

“After seven years of keeping him close, yes.” Clarus answered, jaw set; “Don’t try to be obtuse Reggie. Noctis is going to start his training soon, and you should be there for him.”

“Which one of us is the King?”

“Which one of us is talking sense?”

Noctis was small. Smaller than any training sword in their armoury. Regis could picture it; the way the padding and protective gear would drown him with its size, the small hands struggling to lift the weapon he had chosen, likely due to pictures of his father with the elegant sword Regis had come to favour. Or from stories, told to him in the few hours they spent together between dinner and bedtime. Stories of glory days long past, and of monsters and daemons vanquished by the Armiger’s power he would one day wield. 

Clarus pressed again; “You know what’s out there better than anyone. Who better to prepare him?”

“He needs to be better than me, Clarus. He needs to be faster and smarter. That’s not something I can teach him now.”

“He needs a reason to pick up that sword.”

“Noctis needs—” Regis caught himself in his frustration with the argument. He wanted to say the obvious— the Academy, where Gladio would be there to look after him; the knowledge of the creature that carried a bastard Armiger years ago, which Regis was trying to find. The young prince, Regis knew, needed his mother, to give him the reason to keep fighting for Lucis. “He needs to be better.”

“Come see him.”

“I can’t.”

“Blind now?”

“Have you always been an ass?”

“Yes. Come see your son.”

They would have weeks together in the wake of the Founder’s Day festivals. There would be events and addresses, moments where he would carry his boy out to see the shining balloon— he was looking forward to that in particular. There would be moments, he knew, where every rumble of traffic and threat of a Leiden dust storm would have him clutching the boy tighter and searching the shadows cast by the shining buildings. But he had seen the small suit tailored to his son and his young friend. He had seen the festive shirts and outfits and the little gifts prepared already for his boy’s indulgence.

His heart ached for the wide blue eyes of his boy, and that childish smile still so open and wondrous. 

Noctis would be five years old in a matter of weeks, and that was a new festival to be planned. 

Regis pushed himself away from his desk with a roll of his eyes as Clarus grinned in victory. “He must be very cute if you’re so insistent.”

“You have no idea.”


End file.
